


A Question of Sincerity

by CynicalRainbows



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicalRainbows/pseuds/CynicalRainbows
Summary: "When she wakes up to moonlight streaming in through the open curtains and her wife’s arm slung loosely over her stomach, she pushes away the pain in her head (and the roughness in her throat and the ache all over) and thinks instead about how happy she is."Anne has Strong Opinions about sickness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt I sent to @sapphic-ann-walker.  
> I'm on tumblr at @cynicalrainbows.
> 
> There will possibly be a part 2.

When she wakes suddenly in the middle of the night- covered in sweat and shivering- she blames it on a bad dream and curls closer into Anne’s warm side. 

When her chest hurts from coughing, she blames Captain Lister’s after dinner pipe and goes to sit in the library. 

And when she finds that her every muscle aches as if she’s been pulled on a rack, she mentally resolves to ride out with Anne less often in the afternoons. 

(She doesn’t know what being racked is like really of course. Not that Anne’s description hadn’t been really terribly graphic. Sometimes she wishes that her wife would restrict her after dinner reading to treatise on the practise of mining rather than delving into the history shelves so often. And Anne didn’t just describe it- there were pictures….. She wonders if this accounts for her poor appetite of late.)

But when all of it- the fever and the coughing and the aching, all of it- persists for the third day running, she wonders if perhaps it’s nothing to do with nightmares or pipes or spending too long in the saddle.   
She wonders if perhaps instead, she’s just succumbing to the same flu that has seen John and Marian and even stalwart Cordingley take to their beds.

The flu that has also, not entirely by coincidence, been the cause of a lot of eye rolling and pointed signing on the behalf of her wife. Of course, being Anne, she hasn’t left it at that: she’s also just come straight out and announced her belief that they’re over-egging it all a bit. 

At least, Cordingley and John are spared her arch comments about sickness seeming to hit hardest when there are dull or unpleasant (or unpleasantly dull or dully unpleasant) things to be gotten out of, but Ann suspects this is less down to Anne trying to be a good employer and more because both of them fortunate enough not to live with her and the fact that actually going to their homes to berate them would be going just a touch too far.

Not so though in the case of Marian.

Marian is given the full benefit of Anne’s opinion that often, sickness is really an issue not so much of actual contagion but a test of mind over matter. Bar genuine cases of disease (she doesn’t say what she counts as genuine disease but Ann suspects it’s anything that comes with symptoms more interesting and unusual than the coughing-sneezing-shivering that Marian is displaying), then people can and do and should just work through it. 

Or if they really can’t, at least have the courtesy to not keep talking about it the whole time, let alone having the audacity to cough all over the place.

(Not that Marian appears to be particularly bothered by the haranguing. From the way she rolls her eyes, Ann rather suspects that Marian has heard one or possibly several of these arguments before).

For the most part, the other residents of Shibden do not comment.

Captain Lister stays out of all of it (Ann feels that is the right way to put it: the fact that he is many years deaf does nothing to change the fact that he would not care a whit enough to interject if he could hear). 

Aunt Anne sighs like she’s heard it all before (as indeed she has) and puts her teacup down long enough to remark that she wonders Anne doesn’t chide her and Captain Lister for ‘giving in’ to their own infirmities.

To her credit, Anne looks incredulous and suitably horrified at the suggestion (Anne’s affection for her aunt is as endearing as her bickering with Marian is insufferable): she pauses in her diatribe long enough to assure all and sundry that of course she didn’t mean them, that they shouldn’t think for a minute that she means them….but that, of course, the ailments that plague the Captain and Aunt Anne are rooted largely in their age and therefore they cannot be helped.  
Some people, on the other hand-

As they argue (or rather, as Anne argues and Marian makes as many snide rejoinders as she can think up on the spot), Ann waits for someone to draw her into the argument and bites her thumbnail at the first stirrings of anxiety. 

Because of course she will be brought into it- how can one debate the authenticity of debilitating illness in its various forms and fail to at least mention the fact that one of the current household is incapacitated nearly as many days than the rest put together? 

How can they refer to Aunt Anne’s poor ulcerated legs that keep her housebound and not to the fact that a younger Ann- in possession of her youth and strength, such as it is- sometimes keeps to her room for days at a time, her door closed and the bedclothes pulled tight? 

(At least Aunt Anne allows the drapes to be opened). 

How can they debate the genuineness of flu- with its real, visible symptoms- and not the existence of whatever it is that still sometimes (to her eternal shame) has her rousing Anne from sleep in the small hours to silence all the clocks and their insidious whispering?

(They must have noticed by now- sometimes Anne forgets to put them back together before the next morning- but somehow, it hasn’t been mentioned. Yet.)

And how- how can they talk of ‘giving in to it’ without remembering the time that Ann gave in too? (Once, only once- but as her scars- still livid in the cold and too high up her wrists for her sleeves to entirely cover- remind her and everyone else, once, as it happens, is enough). 

How can they talk of sickness and not come to wonder if the affliction that so stubbornly clings to her comes under the category of disease- or, to use Anne’s phrasing- shamming?

It’s not as if it’s a discussion she’s never been privvy to before, thanks to her multitude of relations fancying themselves to be, if not doctors then logicians.

‘What exactly is wrong with her- are they sure she isn’t...well, it’s awfully convenient for her, isn’t it?’

‘If there was something you could see- but she looks as normal as the rest of us. I really think if she had anything about her, she’d just get on with things-’

‘It’s my opinion that she just gives in to it too much- don’t we all suffer from nerves?’

‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if it’s all….well, real….. Well, can she really be trusted to manage her own affairs?’

She waits, she waits, for the conversation to turn to her. 

And yet….

And yet, somehow, incredibly, it doesn’t.

Ann bites her nails to nothingness, then digs her ruined fingertips into her palms until it hurts enough to imagine that she’s drawing blood- but she is never mentioned.

The conversation moves on- at last, at last- and she isn’t looked to for an opinion until Anne proposes a walk to visit the Hardcastle tenants and see how Henry is getting on with his studies in person and asks if she’d like to come.

She would.

(The walk home feels a thousand miles long.)

*

Gratitude follows her to bed that night (as she turns over yet again, trying to find a position that mitigates the growing congestion in her chest)- she is warmed by it, but determined too.

Anne does not- somehow, somehow- see her….her demons as weakness.

(Yet)

And so she will not tempt fate. She has succumbed to too much to succumb to this most prosaic and easily brushed off of afflictions- common sickness. She will be as Anne wishes she could be (as Anne must surely wish she could be)- she will be strong.

She will not allow her wife- her beloved, infuriating, mad, brilliant, daring, laughing Anne- to look at her with the same impatience that she holds in reserve for people who fail to measure up to her expectations.

She will be strong.

And when she wakes up to moonlight streaming in through the open curtains and her wife’s arm slung loosely over her stomach, she pushes away the pain in her head (and the roughness in her throat and the ache all over) and thinks instead about how happy she is.

(She will not spoil things).

It works. 

(Almost)

*  
Ann isn’t really sick, as she reminds herself (again and again)- but she also doesn’t want to make anyone else not-properly-sick too.

Not Captain Lister (who is of the age that requires only one short bout of anything to tip him from frailty into incapacity), not Aunt Anne (who became Aunt sooner than Ann was able to speak to the Captain directly without stammering), not Marian (with whom a routine of midafternoon crumpets-by-the-fire, served with honey and mutual stories of social awkwardness, has already been quickly established) and (definitely) not Anne.

She just doesn’t think she could cope with the guilt. So- carefully- she does what she can to minimize contact.

It isn’t exactly difficult to minimize contact with a gentleman she’s (mostly) still too afraid to talk to so Captain Lister isn’t a problem, but she notices the crease of consternation in Aunt Anne’s brow when she discreetly steps back to put herself out of line for a kiss when she, Anne and Marian are bidding farewell before a trip into Halifax. 

She wonders if the woman notices that Ann makes sure to sit well away from her, that she moves away from the caresses and affection that she had once treasured as proof that she was being accepted into the family.

She tells herself that she is clever enough to hide her withdrawal. 

Vain fancy. 

Crossing the hall, on the hunt for cologne for her throbbing head, she overhears Aunt Lister’s sigh- ‘- thought she was settling here so well-’ and Marian’s slightly fractious rejoinder- ‘-almost as if she can’t bear to be around us anymore!’.

As they toy with the idea that the blame is Anne’s, wondering if her blunt impatience with ‘shabby little Shibden’ has rubbed off on her wife, Ann takes herself quickly upstairs.

She really doesn’t want to hear.

She can tell that Marian is hurt- at the physical distance she has started to keep between them, at her new reluctance to share a sofa to giggle and gossip as they used to- and that sends her sense of guilt spiralling- the last thing she wants to do is add to the woman’s sense of insecurity. 

Even without their heart to hearts, she’s been able to pick up on it- Anne’s casually derisive remarks about Marian’s occasional histrionic outbursts, the way that even compliments come to Marian in the frame of being likened to her older sister, Marian’s obvious frustration at coming off the worst in every single one of their skirmishes.

(She knows that Marian has been nearly as grateful as her for the unexpected friendship that they’ve formed. Shibden to Anne is- used to be- merely dull but for Marian, it is- was- also lonely).

She sympathises with Marian- she likes her. Too much to knowingly make her unwell again.

And so she keeps her distance.

(She tries not to feel it too hard when Marian stops trying to engage her.)

But- Anne is hardest.

(Anne, after all, is the one she shares a bed with.) 

She rolls away from her wife in bed, presses her face into the pillows, pretending to yawn and stretch. 

She shies away from Anne’s arms pulling her towards her lap; she forces herself to resist the urge to lean into Anne’s side when she’s tired (and she is so tired now, always so tired, so bone-achingly weary now). 

She doesn’t let herself curl up into Anne’s embrace to sleep, she exiles herself to the edge of the mattress. 

She turns her face away from kisses- and that is hardest of all.

And Anne….lets her.   
She doesn’t push after she is rebuffed; she doesn’t ask why. She keeps smiling, keeps on as she has barely noticed, much less minded.

(She keeps trying though.)

And at first, it’s a relief- then, almost as quickly, a worry.

She wonders what it means that her wife is so seemingly unconcerned by the lack of affection- does she even mind? 

(Is she relieved to be free of Ann’s kisses, Ann’s clinging?)

Until all at once, Anne stops trying and everything goes cold. 

And she realises that Anne really does mind.

A cold space between them in bed, a chilly silence in the carriage, in the parlour, at meals. 

It’s Ann who stops touching but Anne who stops talking- and Ann suddenly wonders how she lived back at Crow Nest when her days were perpetually uninterrupted: from the first, she hadn’t as much grown used to Anne’s conversation as she had realised how much she had been missing. 

Silence as she sketches (or tries to sketch as shivers shake her pencil)- no one leaning over her shoulder to admire. 

(No little intake of breath, the puff of air by her cheek as Anne whispers that it’s marvellous; the absolute sincerity when Anne asks how she does it- the teasing glint as the latest canvas is proclaimed to be not too bad really, in a certain light at least. 

Anne trying to snatch the paintbrush away after she has spent a whole day at the easel: ‘I’m a widow to the canvas! I do declare I must be the most neglected wife in all of Christendom!’ ‘Stop it, Anne-’ ‘I once long ago felt my wife’s warm embrace- Argus, let us depart for bachelorhood-’)

Silence when she wakes, no kiss pressed into her hair as Anne asks how she slept, how she feels, did she dream? 

(Anne enjoys recounting her dreams and enjoys hearing Ann’s: she tells her about how the Greeks believed that dreams were messages from the gods, she ponders aloud on what the Greeks would make of the image of Cordingley, Captain Lister and Mrs Lacey from the milliners in Halifax, being carried off by the tide in a boat made from a bonnet). 

(No arch observations or questions from the pillow beside her in the darkness, no more drifting asleep to the sound of her wife’s quiet laughter.)

Silence as she tries to eat at mealtimes- no boasting about how well the sinking of the new pit is going, no updates on the goings on of the Lister’s various tenants.   
Silence as she stares at the same page of the same book in the evenings- no offer from Anne to read aloud, no gentle teasing about Ann’s fondness for romantic novels over good, hard facts. No interruptions with a new and (at least to Anne) fascinating tidbit; her wife’s face shining over the back of the sofa: ‘Sorry, sorry- I know I’m interrupting again! Just- one more thing!’ Little snippets of politics or history or biology- subjects she never cared for, that she doesn’t care for now, except that Anne is so interested, enthusiasm spreading out to capture her and everyone else too.

‘Just let me read you this bit here- just let me show you this picture here- just let me share this with you because I love you and I trust you because I know that you will agree because you love me too’

And when not silence- when words are necessary, when conversation cannot be held off a moment longer- then a calm, bland, businesslike manner that lacks any of the warmth, the enthusiasm that used to be so evident.

(In the early days of their courtship, Anne once told her about a particular form of execution- Lingchi its proper name- ‘the death of a thousand cuts’, with the particular shiny eyed look she gets when reading about the obscure, the foreign, the different: no cut enough to do damage alone but all together enough to kill. She thinks of it with every blank request to be passed the sugar and she doesn’t know why.)

A couple of times Ann wonders, distantly, if there isn’t a way of fixing this, if perhaps maybe- if she could just talk to Anne….. But things are bad now, she’s afraid to try to open up a conversation with her wife for fear of what might be said. 

She knows that explanations will be required, eventually- but things are so bad, she knows that once they start talking, it will be hard to take back anything that is said.

It will be delicate and require care and planning….and between the shivers and the aches, the fever flushes, the headaches, the sore throat that makes it hard to drink let alone eat, it’s too hard to plan now, it’s too hard to thing, it’s too hard to do anything other than focus every fibre of her being Keeping Going. 

So she keeps her distance, tries not to hear Aunt Anne wondering if she’s homesick, Marian wondering if she’s just bored of them already. She tries not to hear her wifes pointed silence.

Because she may be distant, she may be different- but she isn’t weak.

(She really cannot afford any of them to start seeing her as any weaker, any more of a burden, than she already is. She cannot afford Anne to start thinking of her as any more of a burden than she already is for fear that it may push her wife all the closer to the point of deciding that it may be easier to just set the burden down altogether.)

She keeps going, she keeps going- until a day comes that presses on her more heavily than usual. And she can tell, from the minute that she opens her eyes, that she’s worse.

The other side of the bed is already cold.

Dressing is such an effort she has to sit down for a moment on the edge of the tumbled bed to stop her head from spinning and her clothes feel wrong against her sweaty skin.

Downstairs, the thick smell of bacon and toast at the breakfast table is almost overpowering- she nearly has to excuse herself early- but she makes herself sit through it, through the sounds of the rest of them eating, through Aunt Anne remarking upon her need for embroidery thread, through Anne offering to get her some from Halifax.

(Once, she would have asked Ann to come with her; now, she doesn’t even glance at her).

In the hall, the effort of it all hits her: sleans against the wall and tries to breathe deeply, then rouses herself to stand straight just as Anne enters, pulling on her outdoor clothes.

‘Are you off now?’

‘Yes.’

The curtness stings, but she can’t blame Anne, not really. She knows that she is at fault for not making more of an effort- to at least talk to her wife even if she can’t be close to her- but it’s been hard enough to think of eating and dressing and walking without talking too.

Still.

‘Will you be long?’

Anne is concentrating on buttoning her glove, her voice is carefully measured. 

‘It’s alright, you know.’

‘What is?’

‘You needn’t pretend to care.’

‘Anne?’

‘Look, I’m running late and I’ve as little interest in answering your questions as you do in my answer so-’

Anne does look at her then and it’s so very closed off, as if she’s looking at a stranger, as if she’s put part of herself away for safekeeping.

For someone worthier than Ann, apparently.

‘Of course I care’

‘You could at least do me the decency of not lying to me in my own home.’

Like an unexpected blow, it drives the breath from her.

‘Wh- what are you talking about?’

‘You needn’t look so stricken’ Anne sighs ‘I’m- not really angry with you. I always entertained the prospect of you having…..second thoughts, even if I didn’t think they’d come quite so- soon-’

‘I’m not having second thoughts!’

‘I know I’m not easy to...be with. I know- I always knew- it would affect you too. I do understand.’

‘No, you don’t-’

‘I do!’ It’s an effort, Ann can tell, for Anne to say it. Like she’s dragging something up, forcing the words past her teeth. ‘Mariana- explained it all to me. Years ago- she was very clear about what it was like for her and so…. I do understand. I know it’s embarrassing for you to be- It’s just been a little hard for me to… come to terms with.’

‘Anne-’

‘Please!’ Anne suddenly looks pained- her face creases, she shuts her eyes for a second. ‘Please- don’t. Just… don’t. Look, we can talk about it later, we can-’

She keeps her face turned away, her voice is muffled, she presses the back of gloved hand to her mouth: at the doorway she pauses.

‘It’s- alright, you know.’ The twist of her lips is the bitterest idea of a smile. ‘You needn’t worry about me or anything. I can always get through things.’

‘Anne-’ She despises herself that the right words come so slowly, so late- like the whisperers said, she must truly be not quite the whole shilling, a few pennies short of a pound- such fitting phrases because really, what is she when the question of her money is taken out of it?   
A collection of anxieties and neuroses, a slight dexterity with a paintbrush, courtesies she has learnt off by heart for the sake of politeness to hide a lack of social wit. ‘Please, I still love you- truly-’

‘Really…’ There’s a split second when the old softness comes back to her wife’s face. ‘I know it would be easier if I let it go but- Ann, I can’t. We all deserve better than being someone’s duty.’

And then the door is closing, the hem of Anne’s black riding habit whisks out of sight, and she is alone.

Our father who art in heaven-

The door clicks softly shut on happiness, love, warmth, hope. The hall is cold, her throat aches and her eyes feel hot and wet.

-hallowed be thy name-

Not just her eyes- all of her is fiercely overheated, she is sweltering, shaking- grief made flesh; if she could, she would burn herself out of existence where she stands.

-thy kingdom come-  
A sob tears itself from her, as she tries to follow, to explain- if ever she can, if it isn’t too late- but the effort of holding back the tempest inside her chest makes her dizzy- more than dizzy, she is lightness, she is floating, she is weightless.

-thy will be done-

The wood panelled walls tilt alarmingly.

-on earth as it is in heaven.

**

She is back to herself within moments.

Her side hurts, her ankle hurts where it is twisted beneath her. Trying to right herself only brings on a bout of coughing and the spasms keep her bent low, they shake her in much the same way that Argus shakes a rat.

When the front door opens again, she barely registers until Anne is crouching beside her, her hand on her back, on her hand.

‘Ann?’

She can’t talk but she inclines her head towards her wife as much as she can.

‘Ann, are you alright?’

It’s as if the recriminations of less than ten minutes ago are forgotten- Anne tenderly cups the back of her head as she used to.

Sitting close beside Anne on a stiff chaise, her cheek pressed against Anne’s waistcoat, strong fingers caressing the back of her neck, the secret, spoken aloud, hanging heavy in the air around them, and Anne’s murmur in her ear: ‘You know I’d have gotten you out of this scrape, even if you’d said no-’ 

‘Ann- Ann?’

She’s let her eyes close for longer than a blink- she opens them with effort to Anne’s worried face.

‘Sorry- I was- dizzy-’

It’s an effort, as if she’s finally, finally reached the end: after nearly a fortnight, there is no pretending anymore, she has no strength left to pretend.

‘You’re hot-’ Cool fingers against her brow. ‘I don’t understand- how it can just come on like- It can’t be- not here-’

Anne sounds genuinely worried. Ann wonders what she’s imagining- some deadly disease encountered in a faraway land on her travels perhaps- and feels bound to put her wife’s mind at rest, as humiliating as it is.

‘Not-’ Her words blur together, her eyelids flutter again. ‘It’s...not just now…I’ve been feeling….off’

‘How long?’

‘The wednesday- last wednesday before-’ She’s too worn out to care about how it looks any more, the relief of just being able to admit it makes her eyes fill with tears again. 

‘Heavens, that’s- why on earth didn’t you say something?’

There’s the impulse to pull away but it’s fading- Anne is supporting her and just the feel of her wife’s arms around her again after so long is wonderful- but she does give a tiny jerk at the incomprehension in Anne’s words.

Can she really be so oblivious?

‘I know…. How you feel about….all of this. I’m- weak enough already.’

There’s a pause.

‘Oh.’

When her wife gets things wrong, it seems she gets them very wrong.

‘Oh Ann… I’m so sorry, I never thought you’d think I meant-’

The relaisation is spreading across her wife’s face, her look of horror grows.

‘And I said- and that’s why- oh god!’ Her hand is seized. ‘And I’ve been- Ann! I’ve been awful to you!’

(She makes a mental note to bring up the fact that she’s been awful to her sister too. Later. For now, she is content to be held and kissed in penitence.)

‘You….shouldn’t- you’ll make yourself ill-’

Anne removes her face from her wife’s tumbled curls. 

‘I think I rather deserve it…. Heavens, how I’ve managed to make such a hash of things!’

She wants to interrupt, to say her own piece- she wants to apologise too- more than anything, she wants to be able to put her own darling infuriating, remorseful wife out of the guilt she is obviously wracked with- but they’re interrupted by a gasp- Mrs Cordingley’s plans for the morning clearly did not include members of the family or their spouses lying in doorways.

‘Heavens! What’s happened?’

Anne twists her head around. ‘Miss Walker has been taken ill-can you let James know he is to fetch the doctor at once?’

‘Yes Miss. Should I send George to help Miss Walker upstairs?’

‘No, I’ll-’ Anne turns back to her. ‘I could carry you my love but for the narrow corridors- I would hate to concuss you. Do you think you can-’

‘Yes-’ She’s still wobbly and everything still hurts but just being able to enjoy the comfort of Anne’s arms around her, Anne’s breath against her cheek as she helps her up and up the stairs to their room is enough to temporarily eclipse the pain.

‘Do be careful on the stairs my love, you know the middle step wobbles-’

And that puts a stop to all unnecessary conversation for the time being.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for the absolutely lovely and kind responses! It's given me motivation to write a second chapter (with a third planned)- I do hope you all like it!

The corridors of Shibden hall are narrow and the Hall is three ornaments (two small vases and a bemused looking porcelain dog) the poorer by the time they reach the bedroom, due to Anne’s insistence that checking on the progress of her wife in her weakened state should absolutely take precedence over looking where she is going.

Eventually though, they make it and Anne helps her out of the clothes she’d gone to a deal to trouble to put on less than two hours ago.

For all Anne’s disdain of ‘giving in’ to sickness, she’s quick and competent as she retrieves various vials from certain drawers, as she fetches water and a basin and a cloth and goes about wiping off her wife’s damp face and neck.

When Cordingley comes to tap at the door and offer assistance, Anne sends her away and she’s grateful- she had seen her wife’s mouth open to give assent and then close at her pleading glance. 

She doesn’t want anyone else there.

She knows the servants well enough by now (as much as one can be said to know a servant)- enough that she can make small requests of them without feeling like too much of an imposition, enough to be able to make shy conversation with Hemmingway when she helps her lace her gown, enough to be able to wish Eugenie ‘Bonjour’ or ‘Bonsoir’ or ‘Bonnuit’ without stammering- she’s even talked to Cordingley a little about the woman’s bad leg and recommended the salve that she uses when her own back gives her pain- but she doesn’t want to see anyone right now.

‘The doctor should arrive soon, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Yes.’ She doesn’t have the energy to argue although she’s fairly sure she doesn’t really need to see one. She’s seen enough of doctors.

‘For now- we need to make sure you’re drinking enough’ And a glass is held to her lips. ‘It might even help bring your temperature down a bit.’

She drinks- she doesn’t really want to, her throat protests as she does and she winces- but Anne’s tone is firmly businesslike and she finds she’s almost shy of her wife.

‘A bit more- it’s so easy to dehydrate when you’re feverish’

Or at least- she’s not shy of her wife, her own darling, stubborn, daring, eccentric Anne- but of the cool, silent stranger who wears her face that she has been cohabiting with for the past seven days.

Neither is entirely absent, neither is entirely there- it could have easily been The Stranger who poured the water-

‘Good.’

-but it’s her Anne who smiles approval upon her when the glass is nearly empty, who squeezes her hand in sympathy and says she will send down for some honey to try and soothe her throat.

It’s a relief, she finds, to recognise her wife again.

*

Later- much later, after the doctor has been and gone- as she lies with a cool cloth across her forehead and Anne curled up on top of the covers next to her- ostentatiously reading as much as one can read when they keep looking up every thirty seconds to check nothing is needed- she readies herself. 

They need to talk.

As tempting as it is to let herself be soothed into just enjoying the return of her wife’s attention and affection, she knows they have to actually talk about this- whatever this is- properly.

The look on Anne’s face: ‘I can always get through things’. She keeps flashing back to it.

She looked so resigned.

And for her part, she owes her wife a proper explanation.

(She probably owes Aunt Anne and Marian one too- Marian especially- but that can wait. Everything else can wait.)

No. As much as she doesn’t really want to have this conversation, she knows they need to talk about the myriad of issues they obviously haven’t quite worked through.

Bringing them up on the other hand….

‘Anne?’

‘What is it my sweet?’ Her voice is quiet but wife is instantly alert, positively vibrating with the need to be helpful, to be useful. ‘What do you need? What can I get for you?’

It’s like Argus, she realises- Argus waiting for a command, desperate to be given an order.

‘We need to talk’

There’s a seconds pause, as if Anne is going to feign ignorance, make her say it out loud, to deny there’s anything to talk about at all- It would be just like her, the stubborn thing- but then she nods.

‘We do. When you’re better though.’

‘No. Now.’

She so seldom asserts herself so firmly but she knows how much Anne enjoys it when she does- enjoys watching her do so to others, enjoys being ordered herself. Even more, she suspects that her wife enjoys the opportunity to tease her, to argue back to encourage her.

‘What do you mean, we have plenty of time to walk there!’  
‘It’s going to pour down any minute- you’re welcome to walk if you’d like but I shall be taking the carriage.’

‘I think it’s a lovely colour-’  
‘And I think you’re being utterly blind- it’s dreadful and Marian will agree with me, I know!’

(Marian makes it a point to always agree with her over Anne, as much as she makes it a point to side with Marian wherever she can, not least because she enjoys how much it bothers her wife).

Anne takes her hand and kisses the upturned palm. 

‘You need to rest. I want to get you well again.’

‘Anne.’ She turns her head towards her wife's warm hand and smiles as Anne cups her cheek. ‘I know what will happen if we wait.’

‘What do you mean?’ She appears to be genuine.

‘We’ll wait. And then it’ll all be back to normal and I’ll be scared of making you cross. And you’ll be scared of upsetting me. Something else will get in the way and we’ll just- we’ll not talk about it at all until…’

Anne’s watching her, her eyes serious.

‘Until the next time.’

‘You’re… right. You are right.’ She’s saying it as much to herself as she is to Ann. ‘Just….’

The look she gives her is…. Uncomfortable. Pleading- she almost looks embarrassed to be saying it. 

At least, she thinks that’s how she looks. (She has never really seen Anne Lister look embarrassed before).

‘Could we- can we- would you mind terribly if we did it… just a bit later?’

She opens her mouth; Anne hurries.

‘Soon, today if you like… I just…. I have spent the last few days trying to- forcing myself to accept that-’

It’s an effort- when she meets Ann’s eyes again, her own are very bright, her face raw and open.

‘That…..you’ve stopped loving me. And…. it’s been rather….hard.’

It’s not a surprise, but hearing it out loud leaves a ragged tear in her heart. Immediately, Anne is half back to herself.

‘It’s been- no, my darling, please lie back, I know you didn’t really, i’m just trying to explain- I’ve been making myself think that for so long…. I just want to take a little bit of time to…. Enjoy having been wrong. 

‘Anne-’

She wants to apologise, she wants to be able to take her wife’s hands and look into her eyes and put into words just how much she loves her, how much she regrets all of this- but although the awfulness of the situation is past- or at least well on the way to being resolved, her head is still swimmy from fever and moving is still an effort, so all she manages is another feeble attempt to sit up before Anne is gently urging her back again.

‘I’m- I’m so, so-’

You have nothing to be sorry for my love, nothing at all- it was my stubbornness- and it’s not just that, I rather feel- that I have a lot to make up for. I can’t believe that I… how I acted towards you, when you were feeling so poorly-

Her wife looks so utterly woebgone- and she never could ignore someone in pain- that she’s already reaching out to console her, she’s already shaking her head to deny it, to assuage her guilt- but it isn’t until Anne reaches out and brushes a tear from her cheek with cool fingers that she realises she’s not quite able to do so. Not that she hasn’t forgiven- that was instantaneous and unthinking- but she hasn’t forgotten. She hasn’t forgotten the stifling crushing loneliness of it all- or the sheer panic of being left and so it isn’t entirely a shock when her reassurances come out as a sob and when instead of mutual apologies, she is being gathered up in her wife’s arms and held tightly against her chest.

‘Oh my darling-’

Her head is tucked beneath Anne’s chin, she feels Anne’s hand smooth her hair- she is enveloped in her wife and she cannot think of a single place she would rather be.

‘I’m sorry I said so much but I wanted to explain-’ She steadies herself. ‘We will talk, I promise you. Properly. When you’re up to it.’

Despite having been the one to have brought it up, she finds she has no energy left for talking, for explanations- no energy left for anything other than curling up in the warmth of her wife’s arms and letting the pent up tears of exhaustion and sadness and relief soak into Anne’s shirtfront.

Weak tears, says the voice in the back of her mind- the voice that has been following her altogether too much recently. Weak tears for a weak person and surely she’ll be wearied by all this, irritated by it, surely she’ll be-

But when she risks a quick look at the face above her own, Anne looks neither wearied nor irritated: rather sad, rather pensieve and there’s guilt there too… but she smiles too when she sees Ann is watching her and it does not look at all forced or reluctant.

It’s relief, it’s warmth. It’s love.

The bedclothes are tucked more securely around her, Anne draws her closer and despite the fever shivers she feels warmer than she has in days.

‘We will talk about everything later and we’ll sort everything out- we’ve managed to mix things into a fair state between us….But for now, you need to rest and I…. I rather think I want to try and make up for lost time.’

A kiss is pressed into her hair.

‘Anne-’ Talking is harder the cosier she feels, she feels herself drifting, but it does need to be said- she can’t let all the apologies be one way. ‘Anne- I’m sorry too, I-’

‘And it’s a frightfully delicate operation so please don’t distract me by talking, Miss Walker.’

There’s still the tiniest of catches in her voice- Ann would bet (if she were a betting woman) that her wife’s eyes are perhaps still just a touch too shiny…. But the light, teasing tone in her voice that has been so very absent over the last week is back and it’s like rain after a drought, it’s like sun after a sullen patch of seemingly endless cloud- and although her tears haven’t quite dried yet, she’s able to laugh- for all that it makes her cough too.

Anne helps her sit up until the fit passes, the water is held again to her lips- she’s taken several sips and is sinking back down into the warmth and safety of her wife’s arms when she feels Anne’s head dip to her ear: ‘Rest, my love. I’ll be right here.’

And so- she does.


	3. Chapter 3

She’s swimming towards consciousness, the dream fading and blurring behind her eyes, drowned out by the brightness that’s turning them to nothingness, the constriction around her legs. It’s a moment before everything shifts into familiarity, into normalcy- a candle lit on the bedside table, bedclothes twisted and tangled around her legs.

The light is fading outside- it must be late afternoon- and the bed beside her is empty. Hemmingway is lounging- at least, as much as one can lounge in a straight backed chair- by the door, her eyes half closed- she must have been there for a while- but she gives a little jerk when she hears Ann’s movement and sits up straight.

‘Miss Walker- you’re awake!’

Her voice sounds overloud compared to Anne’s low murmur. Still muzzy from sleep, she passes a hand over her face, pushing back her hair. Her brow is damp with sweat, her nightgown feels sticky but the shivering has passed. Still, she doesn’t feel better- more as if sleep has given her body a proper chance to really  _ get into _ being ill.

‘What time is it?’

Hemmingway looks a little baffled- she keeps forgetting that not everyone has the same obsession with keeping time that her wife does- and then ducks out of the room to inspect the hall clock. 

_ Anne would know, down to the minute. _

It had been a shock, when she realised that that particular habit has rubbed off on her- she still seldom bothers with taking her own pocket watch anywhere (she’s not entirely sure where it even  _ is) _ and she still has to remind Anne that pulling out your pocket watch in church is  _ not  _ the done thing….but she does find herself checking time with Anne much more frequently than she used to. 

_ Funny, that so many see checking the time as an indication of boredom. _

At Crow Nest, she had found the opposite was true- clocks and all time keeping devices were dreaded because of their relentless uncompromising potential to show just how little of the endless morning or afternoon was actually passing.

When Hemmingway returns from her inspection of the hall clock to inform her that it’s a quarter past four, she’s mildly surprised at how much time has passed.

Bits and pieces from the past few hours come back to her in snatches- cold water trickling down her neck from the sponge and Anne apologising when it makes her jump, Anne’s eyes watching her from over the pages of the newspaper, her pillow being turned to the cool side, Anne’s quiet promise to let Marian win their next argument if she drinks a little more.

‘Miss Lister had to go and see Mr Burry about a problem with the pit-’ Hemmingway breaks into her thoughts. ‘She said it wasn’t convenient and for him to come back later but he wouldn’t so she’d see him and I was to sit with you til she came back-’

She keeps her eyes on the bedpost as she says it- she of all the servants has been the shyest of Ann since her move to Shibden.

Mrs Cordingley has a ‘seen it all before’ sort of manner about her- from her matter of factness, you’d think that it was perfectly normal to see your employer move another woman into her bedroom. Although, Ann thinks, for Cordingly, that probably  _ is  _ normal. (She isn’t quite sure if that makes her feel reassured or faintly disquieted). Hemmingway though is more tentative and with Ann’s own shyness, it leads to a lot of silence and a lot of what little is said being said to the floor or various pieces of furniture.

(A mistress, Ann is sure, should be more confident. All her cousins would say so, and their Aunt would agree. She isn’t sure what Aunt Anne would have to say on the subject yet but she has a slight suspicion that she may possibly differ in opinion on this particular issue. It’s a rather pleasing thought.)

‘Have you had to sit long?’ The chair surely can’t be comfortable.

‘Not too long, Miss. That is- not very long.’ But she moves with the stiffness of someone who has been keeping still for longer than they would choose. ‘Miss Lister said I was to stay in case you needed anything and to fetch her if you seemed worse but to keep quiet.’

_ Goodness knows what Anne threatened her with if she woke me. _

She shuffles her feet uncertainly. ‘Are you worse, Miss, would you say?’

‘No.’ What an interminable job it must have felt. ‘You really needn’t stay, actually. I’m sure you have better things to do.’

‘Miss Lister said I was to stay til she came back, Miss.’

‘I know. But I’m really quite alright, honestly.’ 

Hemmingway looks agonised- she obviously has things to attend to but- well, Ann can’t blame her for not wanting to cross Anne.

‘I promise- you won’t be in trouble if you leave me, I’ll explain it all.’

Hemmingway gives a grateful smile and bobs quickly before she leaves.

She’s dozing when she catches a quiet rasping sound and sits up a bit. She looks around- she’s definitely alone. She can’t at all work out what it is- it’s very faint but she’s sure she’s not imagining it….it’s more innocuous than anything her mind has cooked up for her yet so far. 

(Although frankly if it is a hallucination, she decides she’ll take it over malevolent whisperings any day of the week.)

It isn’t until she looks to the floor that she notices the small square of paper that’s evidently just been slid underneath the bedroom door.

How odd.

Curiosity tugs her from the bed. It’s a little disconcerting how much effort it is through- her legs feel shaky as she crosses the room, her head feels even lighter than before and it’s a relief to sink back down against her pillows, paper in hand.

She unfolds it- it’s not a hand she recognises.

_ I didn’t want to disturb you but if you’re awake to read this, I do so hope you’re-  _ _ feeling better _ _ \-  _ _ recovering _ _ \-  _ _ not angry with me _ _ - _ (In the end, the writer had settled for  _ alright _ .)

_ I was so sorry to hear that you’re unwell. _

_ Marian _

It’s the first proper communication she’s had from Marian for a week, and just reading it makes her feel anxious, alongside her relief that Marian at least does not seem to be bearing a grudge.

But still- her stomach twists with nerves. Her hands are shaking, and her first impulse is to hide under the covers, to pretend to not have seen the note- to wait until Anne is back, to wait until Anne can talk her round into the proper course of action.

Except- she has seen it.

Marian would probably accept her making an excuse, Anne would probably even accept (or at least try to understand) her anxiety about answering it, if she explained it to her…..but she isn’t entirely sure that she would accept or understand her inaction herself and so, heart pounding, she takes up the pen that lives in her wife’s bedside drawer and prepares to write a reply.

At first, she thinks that she has too much to say to fit on the back of the small bit of paper, before she remembers that of course that’s foolish. She is after all in the bedroom of the woman who can scarce sneeze without documenting it, and  _ of course _ there’ll be paper around here somewhere.

She’s scanning the room for likely scraps when it occurs to her that Marian is probably still outside the door, waiting to see if she replies, and it would surely be easier to just open the door and talk to her. Indeed, Marian probably only wrote the note to avoid waking her and would, in the event of being awake already, _expect_ her to open the door.

(Anne would open the door.)

But- she’s not Anne. She was raised in the polite quiet of Crow’s Nest where difficult conversations of any sort were-  _ are _ \- looked at askance (not at Shibden Hall, where it is an event for a single day to pass without some sort of dispute, or at least some vigorous sisterly bickering).

Confrontation just isn’t in her nature.

So she scrabbles uselessly through a couple of drawers.

They yield plenty of paper, all of which is covered on both sides with her wife’s half illegible scrawl (plus a few with the odd doodle- she makes a mental note to offer Anne drawing lessons once she’s better because goodness she can’t even tell what half of them are meant to be.)

(Although she must admit a certain fondness for the one of a dog- Argus? She isn’t sure- wearing a top hat and holding a cane.)

Eventually, she gives up and uses the original note, making her writing as small as she can. 

(Let the one of them who isn’t sick find the next bit of paper.)

_ Thank you- I’m _ \- she pauses at adding  _ ‘fine’ _ . 

(If she were fine, she wouldn’t be in bed at a quarter past three in the afternoon. Come to that, if she were fine, she and Marian wouldn’t be communicating via notes under a door. She settles for  _ ‘feeling a little better’ _ in the end.)

_ It’s kind of you to ask. _

She feels foolish as she crouches down to slide the note under the door and back into the hall- she almost wants to pull it back- but then it’s too late.

The reply is almost immediate.

_ I’m glad- can I bring you anything?? Is there anything you need?? _

She can’t stop smiling reading it- the desperate desire to be useful, the very words themselves almost twitch on the page with their desire to help… it’s so very Marian- and so very Anne, when she comes to think of it.

( She thinks it’s funny how the differences between the sisters are so very much at the forefront that their few but profound similarities rather take one by surprise.)

_ I have all I could need, thank you. Anne was very attentive before she had to leave. _

_ She looked so very worried as she was leaving. She threatened us all with unspeakable horrors if we disturbed you or troubled you. Cordingley nearly bit Joseph’s head off for dropping a serving dish. _

Poor Anne. (And poor Joseph too.)

She feels a pang of guilt- she’s  _ still _ causing everyone trouble, even confined to her room.

_ Please tell them all to go about as normal, I really don’t wish to disrupt everything. I am sorry about all of this. _

She wants to write more- she’d like to try to  _ explain _ things, if she can- but she knows if she starts, she won’t stop- it’ll be a never ending spiral and there isn’t enough room on the paper left for that- so she leaves it at ‘everything’ and accidentally makes a tear in the paper making the last full stop.

Then she waits.

She’s biting her nails (Anne hates that she does but has mostly given up nagging her about it) and wondering if Marian has just gotten bored with the exchange (it wouldn’t be the first time someone has wearied of her company) when there’s a tentative tap on the door.

It’s so quiet that she’s wondering if it was just Marian striking against the door by mistake when it comes again, slightly more forceful this time.

‘Ann? Are you there?’

She almost nods, then realises that of course Marian can’t see her. 

‘Y-yes.’

‘Might I come in for a moment?’

She retreats to the bed before she answers- the coverlet feel like protection (although from what she isn’t sure)- and tries to smooth her tangled hair a bit, not that it does much good.

‘Yes.’

The door opens slowly. Marian steps inside but doesn’t look up until it’s shut behind her.

‘Thank you. I won’t stay long, I don’t want to tire you out. I just wanted to say… that you don’t need to apologise. At all. Actually- I rather think we should all be apologising to you.’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t even notice you were- I didn’t even think to ask.’

‘It’s alright, I should have just said something…’

‘Well… you might have. If my ridiculous sister hadn’t-’ she pauses, realising that perhaps Ann might not appreciate her maligning her wife. ‘But still. I wasn’t fair of me to assume the worst- to just close you out without asking if there was anything the matter.’

‘You didn’t-’

‘I  _ did.’ _

‘Well- I began it.’

Marian looks as if she’s going to disagree and then half inclines her head in acceptance. 

‘Still. I- I like to think- I- we’re friends, aren’t we? I should have…. I’m just… I assume the worst of people too quickly. Or- not the worst. I assume the worst of me too quickly- I just assumed you must have gotten tired of me. I….love my sister. I do. But it’s….hard. Sometimes.’

They’re alike in that, Ann reflects- they’re both under the shadow of something bigger than they are, something that clouds everybody else’s view of them- they’re both pigeonholed. 

‘I do understand. At least, I think I do. What it feels like. Or- I can imagine. When people see you as an invalid, you’re never allowed to be anything else. Although I suppose I am one.’

‘Well, I AM just the other sister.’

She looks terribly resigned to it.

‘One can’t hope to have people… notice you when someone else is so very noticeable. 

I’m never dissatisfied with my life- not  _ really-  _ until I have to compare it with Anne’s. I’m not without occupation- but there’s nothing interesting in- in sewing and reading and managing the house and going to church when you think that’s she’s seen half the world.’

Ann feels a little at a loss- she’s never really talked to Marian about the different path her life has taken compared to her sister. But she’s wondered sometimes- of course, everyone leads a rather  _ pedestrian  _ existance when compared to Anne, but what it must be like to be Marian and have the difference constantly held before your eyes?

She can’t imagine it.

(For all the things of Elizabeth’s that she’s envied over the years- her new dolls and dresses when they were children, a stable mental health now they’re adults- her life in Inverness is not one of them.)

She tries to be delicate. ‘And do you- could you not travel too? If you wanted to?’

‘That’s the thing-’ Marian sinks down onto the edge of the bed. ‘I don’t really  _ want _ to go anywhere. I  _ like  _ home. Her stories are exciting to listen to but all she has to do to make them happen- those journeys! Not bathing or changing for days, and getting caught in sea storms or held up on the road….having to  _ meet _ so many new people, all the time, and have strangers round you constantly….and the  _ talking…. _ I’m not like her, I know she only has French and German- and Latin of course, not that it counts- and the rest of it she just picks up in bits and pieces as she goes…..but I could never do that, I just couldn’t-’

This- she can understand. She’s privately wondered before how Anne manages as well as she does- even with the very obvious difference in their temperaments, she wonders. Of course- for her, it is different: she’d never considered travelling before she met Anne, and afterwards-

Well. Travelling with Anne is an entirely different matter.

She notices Marian watching her.

‘I’m sorry- I know you and Anne plan to go abroad next year. I shouldn’t have said those-’

‘No- it’s quite alright.’ She tries to explain. ‘With Anne….. It’s different. But alone… I would feel just as you do….’ She hesitates. ‘Of course, there’s no possibility of…?’

‘Of Anne and I travelling together? Marian makes a face. ‘Tell me truly- would  _ recommend  _ such a thing?’

She has to laugh. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Perhaps not indeed… we’d have to be transported as Father used to move the fighting cocks, in separate cages the entire way-’

‘Paper cones over your heads for fear you catch a glimpse of each other-’

‘Perhaps people could make money betting on us-’

They’re both laughing by this point, and as much as it’s making her chest hurt, Ann relishes it. She hasn’t laughed with Marian in  _ so long _ -

Impulsively she clears her throat and leans forward.

‘Marian, I need to apologise-’

‘Ann-’

‘I’m sorry I cut you out. I just didn’t want to make you ill- you have so much to do, I know you have to manage the house by yourself-’ (For all she loves her wife and admires her projects, she isn’t blind. She knows that Anne doesn’t tend to trouble herself too much about the domestic matters that interest her so little, and that the weight of this lack of interest falls nearly entirely upon her younger sister.)

‘Ann, it’s alright, you don’t have to explain-’

‘No, I want to.’ She steels herself.  _ Have the courage that Anne sees in you.  _ ‘I also didn’t want to have to admit I wasn’t feeling well. I’m- unwell so often, you know.’

She holds Marian’s eyes- thankfully, she doesn’t pretend to misunderstand, doesn’t make her explain that she means a  _ different sort of unwell. _

‘I’m not….naive. I know it affects everybody- anybody who’s around me, and I know that not everyone understands.’

Marian nods. ‘It must be hard- to be away from your family-’

‘My family.’ She tries to find the right words. ‘They- do and they don’t. Unstand, that is. They understand I’m not quite  _ well _ but…. It’s not really that they think I’m  _ ill _ , I don’t think. It’s more as if they think there’s something wrong with my- my mind or my sense. That I’m  _ weak,  _ and… and  _ foolish…  _ that I’m just  _ cowardly _ ….’ She’s struggling- she’s rambling, she knows she is- but at least Marian hasn’t interrupted her yet. ‘I think….they certainly  _ say  _ that I’m unwell, and everyone knows that they don’t just mean physically, but secretly, I think they  _ blame  _ me for it really. They’re glad I am how I am- because it means they can have things, ask for things they couldn’t if I was...oh, a mother with six children and a husband with his own plans for my money…. But then sometimes I’m an inconvenience or a nuisance and I know they’re thinking that the whole thing is my fault anyway, my  _ choice  _ really… that if I wasn’t so  _ pathetic _ , I’d be alright, I’d be the same as them….’

She breaks off. She suddenly realises how loud her voice sounds in the quiet of the bedroom- surely they must have heard her right down in the  _ scullery-  _ and goodness-

The implications of what she’s just said is hitting her, it’s like she’s hearing herself again…. Was it really her saying those things? She doesn’t think she’s ever even properly articulated these thoughts in her own head before and now she’s saying them to someone she hasn’t even known for very long- what must Marian  _ think  _ of her, being so ungrateful for all the kindnesses her family have done for her, for all they’ve put up with-

She opens her mouth to backtrack, to explain to Marian that of course, she does love them, that she knows they have her best interests at heart, that of course, she’s just speculating and that really it’s very good of them all to help her so much, that she’ isn’t  _ ungrateful-  _ but Marian takes her hand in both her own.

‘You’re going to say that you love them despite everything, that really they’re terribly good to you and that they’re as kind as can be…. aren’t you?’

She nods, mutely.

‘You can consider it said, if you like.’

She’s not sure how Marian is able to take the words right out of her mouth like that- she’s so stunned by it and so overwhelmed by her own tirade that all she can manage is a quite ‘Really?’

‘Yes. As long as you promise to add the caveat that I love my sister very much and rejoice in her happiness to everything else I say about her to you.’

There’s a smile tugging at the corner of Marian’s mouth- she (somehow) doesn’t look horrified at Ann’s diatribe, she doesn’t look shocked.

(She doesn’t look as if she thinks that Ann is the most dreadfully ungrateful person in all of Christendom to talk so about her family. She doesn’t even- thank goodness- look as if she wonders if perhaps Ann’s relatives maybe have a point after all.)

‘Families are….hard, aren’t they?’

It’s such an understatement- after all they’ve said, both of them- that Ann suddenly wants to laugh.

‘They are.’

‘I told Anne, you know- I’m happy- we’re all very happy- that you’re part of our family now. Part of Shibden. Such as it is.’

It’s not the first time that it’s been said to her but it’s never meant as much as it does now.

‘And I hope that you know…’ Marian is clearly trying to choose her words carefully. ‘That whatever similarities there are between this family and your own….we have our differences too. I promise you… no one here would ever think that- that- well, no one would ever think that the things you said were true. Not for a moment.’

She has to blink back tears and she can’t quite answer for a moment, but eventually, she manages a choked ‘Thank you.’

It’s such a small, insignificant word for what she wants to say- but Marian smiles as if she’s made a speech for her.

There’s a few moments while they gather themselves- it seems that neither of them were entirely planning on such a conversation: Ann wriggles into a more comfortable position, Marian fusses with smoothing out her skirts.

‘Well…. I should let you get some rest, before Anne comes back and blames me for disturbing you…’

‘Alright.’

Marian is probably right- and she’s taken up enough of the woman’s time as it is- but she still feels a little sad. She’s missed spending time with her.

‘Of course-’ Marian hesitates. ‘Anne probably won’t be back for at least another half hour, if that….’

‘Yes.’

‘I was wondering if...well, if you felt in need of some… amusement. Very quiet, sick-room appropriate amusement, of course’ She hurriedly adds.

‘Well…’ 

‘I sometimes bring the backgammon board to Aunt’s bedroom when she’s confined…. I don’t suppose you play, do you?’

(It turns out that Marian’s backgammon prowess far exceed that of her sister and the game occupies them until Cordingley knocks on the door to light the lamps.

  
Ann- for once- actually  _ loses _ . But she doesn’t mind. Not at all.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely comments you have all left make my day whenever I read them- you're all so nice!
> 
> Also the lovely and wonderful Evenatango deserves much credit for patiently reading every chapter and putting up with me being silent while I tap away (and for being the inspiration behind the fluffier parts).

It’s impossible to not hear Anne returning home- she bangs the door behind her, calls out a general hello and strides up the stairs to the bedroom.

‘Goodness I’m sorry it took so long, the meeting was interminable, I thought he’d never stop talking- how are you-’ She pauses. ‘Oh. Hello Marian.’

‘You took your time’ It’s arch, said more for the sake of scoring off Anne than for any strong feelings one way or the other about the time of her sister’s arrival. Ann doesn’t blame Marian for it (she cannot begrudge her any small advantages in the sister’s constant warring), but it does feel a little odd: she can’t imagine Marian ever chiding her so.

Anne looks annoyed. ‘I came back as quickly as I could- how are you feeling, my love?’ The first half of the sentence is said briskly, snappily; the second half is full of softness- they could have been spoken by two different people.

Leaning down, she cups Ann’s cheek and looks her over, feels her forehead and then kisses her. ‘I’m so sorry I had to abandon you like that-’

‘No, of course you had to go- and Marian has been so kind to keep me company.’

If anything, Anne looks more discomforted at this, not less.

‘So I see.’

She shoots Marian a ‘get off of my bed NOW’ look, and turns back to Ann for another kiss.

Marian reluctantly moves from where she’s been curled up against the footboard and starts to gather the counters and dice together.

‘How was Mr Burry?’

‘Out of breath and as pedantic as ever- I told him that next time he calls me out with something  _ urgent _ , it had better be something that is actually taking place not just something that would be a matter of importance were it actually happening…’ 

‘I’m glad there was nothing really the matter.’

‘So am I- although so frustrating to waste all that time for nothing-’

(Ann knows already that wasted time for Anne is more than an annoyance- it is a cardinal sin.)

Marian fastens the backgammon board with a loud click.

‘I’ll leave you in peace- I should check on dinner anyhow.’ She looks to Ann, almost shyly. ‘We could perhaps have a rematch tomorrow if you felt up for it?’

She’s well versed in feigning polite pleasure at the prospect of socialising- but her enthusiasm is sincere. ‘Oh yes, that would be lovely!’ 

Marian, after all- like Catherine (although not like Anne, because no one is like Anne) isn’t  _ company _ . (And has not been for some time, she realises. The thought is pleasing to her.)

‘Splendid!’ Marian brushes past Anne (obviously regretting it when she realises that Anne’s coat is soaking wet) and departs smiling, backgammon board under her arm.

Anne closes the door after her with slightly more force than needed (in fact, the way she is given to doing most things), shucks off several layers of rain-damp outerwear and takes Marian’s place on the bed, with the possessive satisfaction of a competing sibling.

‘I really do feel dreadful about leaving you- but I’m glad you had- a nice time.’ She says it as if she rather disbelieves that an afternoon spent playing backgammon with Marian could hold any pleasure at all and Ann gives her as much of a Look as she can muster.

(She has been practising this Look- a shorthand and less labour intensive way of reminding Anne to Be Nice- ever since her move to Shibden and she feels she is getting better at it. For her part, Anne has made a concerted effort to not laugh at it any more.)

‘It  _ was  _ nice. It was good to talk to her again.’

‘Good, good.’ Anne unwinds her cravat. 

‘I’ve missed it, actually.’

Anne raises an eyebrow. ‘You live in the same house, my love.’

‘I know  _ that. _ But you know how difficult it is- when you’re both at odds and everything is ...uncomfortable. Like-’

(She pauses. Saying ‘Like you and I’ would feel tactless so soon after- everything and saying ‘Like you and Marian’ wouldn’t be right either, given that both sisters are constantly in a state of crossed swords and that for the most part, neither seems to find it the slightest bit discomforting.)

Anne helps her. ‘Oh goodness yes- like the awful silence I have to bear when Eugenie and Hemmingway are snipping at one another… I know your aunt has been holding forth about how inappropriate it is for you to come to Shibden without taking any of the Crown Nest servants with you, but please say you have no plans to engage another ladies maid or we’ll be quite overcome with histrionics.’

Ann shakes her head, smiling. ‘No, I think I can struggle on for now.’

‘Good.’ Another kiss is her reward (and is quite worth the excellent excuse Anne has just gifted her for not having to withstand the painfully uncomfortable round of interviewing that accompanies the hiring of a new personal maid.)

‘Anyhow- it was nice to talk it all out with her and have everything….’ she fumbles for the right word. ‘ _ Settled,  _ as it were.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. Hard, of course- but still, I’m glad.’ She’s leaning back in Anne’s arms quite comfortably, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of her wife so close- and so she hardly even notices the change in Anne- the imperceptible stiffening, the tiniest of drawing aways.

Hardly even notices it- of course, she  _ does  _ notice.

‘What?’

‘Oh- nothing.’

Anne is excellent at most things but is a terrible liar, the most transparent of pretenders- but Ann does not push. She knows she didn’t imagine it- but she isn’t sure how to bring it up.

(What can she have said?)

*

Anne, to her credit, is appropriately attentive throughout the evening. She declines her place at the dining table and sends Eugenie to fetch her dinner on a tray instead, which she eats at her writing desk, her chair half turned so that the conversation can continue. 

Ann still has no appetite- not for the mutton on Anne’s plate and not even for the broth that Cordingley sends up. 

Anne coaxes her with kisses for the first few spoonfuls, and then with ever more elaborate promises and compromises- by the time the bowl is half empty, the soup is cold but they’re both laughing.

(Ann wonders again if she imagined Anne’s reaction earlier).

It’s while Anne is reading aloud to her- Ivanhoe, a compromise between Ann’s current  _ Coelebs In Search of A Wife _ , which Anne refuses to touch, let alone read from, and Anne’s own  _ Confessions of an English Opium Eater _ (which even Anne concedes may be a touch too dark for a sickroom) that there’s a light knock on the door.

Ann expects Cordingly or Eugenie, but it’s Aunt Anne who is ushered in and helped into the cushioned desk chair .

Ann draws up the sheets as much as she can without making a show of it- she isn’t indecent of course- but having Aunt Anne in their bedroom does feel rather peculiar- she almost wants to ask that she refrains from looking at the bed.

(Of course, she won’t. But the impulse is there. The bed holds… certain memories which, while entirely pleasurable- and rather more than pleasurable- in their making, feel somewhat incompatible with the presence of the sweet-faced elderly Lister.)

She wishes that Anne had been as considerate about letting her Aunt into the room as she had been about allowing Cordingly in when Ann had first been taken ill….but she does, mostly, understand: Anne cannot deny her aunt anything, for all that she is able to defy everyone else in the world, and the thought of  _ not _ letting her in likely hasn’t even crossed her mind.)

‘I just wanted to come and see how you were feeling, dear. I was so sorry when Anne told us you were poorly.’

(She doesn’t appear to be either staring at the bed, or avoiding looking at her- she meets Ann’s eyes calmly, which is something of a relief.)

‘Thank you, it’s kind of you all to think of me.’

‘And I hope this has all taught you a valuable lesson-’

She’s taken aback- Aunt Anne is staring at her meaningfully, as if Ann herself should know exactly what she refers to, almost as if she’s waiting for Ann to finish her sentence.

Ann, for her part, isn’t quite sure exactly what the woman is looking for- the lesson of how she is being a burden to others, the lesson of the trouble that her thoughtlessness has caused? Whatever it is, the cruelty of it takes her breath away and even her wife looks a little uncertain as to what her aunt is talking about.

It’s Anne who broaches the question in the end- Ann’s mouth has suddenly turned too dry to talk. Her stomach clenches. Whatever the lesson is, it isn’t a  _ new  _ one. She’s been reminded of such lessons for nearly as long as she’s been alive by various aunts, uncles and cousins- their pointed sighs and raised eyebrows have worked just as well as plain speech.

(She supposes at least that another aunt chiding her for her weakness is not too much of a change.)

‘What do you mean?’

Aunt anne tuts and looks exasperatedly at her favourite. ‘As if you don’t know! The lesson, my dear-’ she turns to Ann much more gently ‘to not listen to my niece when she gets one of these silly ideas in her head- as if anyone could help catching the flu! Mind over matter, I never heard such nonsense!’

The relief washes over Ann in a wave- she’s just about able to manage a smile in reply, though it’s admittedly a trifle shakey.

‘No wonder you didn’t want to own you weren’t well- especially in a strange place. Although saying that’ she leans forward earnestly ‘We all want you to feel that Shibden is- well, we couldn’t hope you replace Crow Nest or your own dear relations, but we hope you’ll come to be as comfortable here as you were at home. In time.’

‘Thank you- you’re very kind.’ 

(She has no desire to explain that she’s never really felt comfortable anywhere. Crow Nest is home because of it’s familiarity, not it’s warmth….but she can’t explain that to Aunt Anne in a way she’ll understand. Anne though looks at her in a way that says maybe she does- just a little. Perhaps her own sex felt as alien and comfortless to her once upon a time, before she found a way to mould it to her liking.)

Aunt Ann nods and maneuvers herself out her chair. ‘That’s all I wanted to say, dear- I’ll leave you in peace now. I hope you don’t mind me intruding on you like this-’ 

‘Of course not-’ She and Anne are a chorus of disagreement.

‘-but I wanted to have it said, as it were. I’ve been meaning too of course, almost since before you arrived- but I haven’t found quite the moment.’

‘I’ve been…’ (Cold? Silent?) She settles for ‘Busy’.

It’s a delicate way to refer the last two weeks of avoidance and silence and guilt and she sense they are all grateful for it- no one wishes to dwell, least of all Ann herself.

‘We’re all hoping you’ll be feeling better soon- but don’t rush yourself up before you’re ready. And if there’s anything you need-’

‘I can’t think of a thing- Anne has been so very attentive-’

‘Well it seems to me you’re out of water.’ She nods to the empty glass on the bedside table and gives Anne a pointed look, who immediately springs to her feet.

‘I can’t  _ believe  _ Marian left you without water-’

Ann gives her as much of a Look as she can muster with Aunt Anne in the room and the younger Anne quietens, and closes the door quietly behind her as she leaves, jug in hand.

‘Water aside- are you sure you’re being looked after alright?’

Ann nods fervently. ‘Oh yes- Marian sat with me this afternoon and Anne has barely left my side.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear that you’re taking care of one another.’

She isn’t sure exactly how her being waited on constitutes her  _ taking care _ of Anne.

‘I haven’t really-’

Aunt Ann waves away her denial. ‘Oh no, no. I didn’t mean only now- just generally. She was… rather low, in herself, you know. For- ever such a long time. She did well enough, with her books and her travelling and her plans and such, and I daresay she enjoyed them, as much as she could but still. She wasn’t happy. I could always tell.’

‘And…. is she….’ She still has to ask. ‘Is she happier now, would you say?’

It’s ridiculous but she almost doesn’t want the answer- she’s holding her breath. It comes anyhow- Aunt Anne looks incredulous.

‘If only you had known her….. Of course, you have nothing to compare to but….’ She sighs. ‘I’d say that she was back to how she was...before. But no- I can’t. It wouldn’t be right- she  _ is  _ different. Not just happier- although she is, of course.’

She leans forward and takes one of Ann’s hands in hers.

‘Anne is- precious to me. I’ve known her all her life, I like to flatter myself to think that she’s never felt the need to hide herself from me- oh, I’m not a fool, I know she doesn’t tell me everything and that’s as it should be- some things you don’t want or need your parents knowing- but the important things… she’s never hid  _ herself _ from me. Even when everybody else was- less than understanding, I don’t think she ever really put on to me.’

Ann is transfixed- Anne has never told her much about her early life. She knows little scraps, not a lot- being expelled from a boarding school, making up the code she still uses as a schoolgirl, breaking her arm after Marian pushed her out of a tree and not telling anyone for a day and a half….and the fact that she made her home with her Aunt, permanently, when she was only fifteen.

She never speaks of her parents and Ann does not ask.

‘She was….lucky to have you. She  _ is-’  _ she corrects herself hastily, and Aunt Anne smiles.

‘I think she was. I think it made her feel safer, knowing that she had someone to trust, someone she didn’t have to hide from-’ she takes a breath ‘I’ve seen Anne with many companions, over the years. I’ve met some of them, too. But, my dear- I don’t think any of them have ever made her feel as you have. She has another safe space with you- and I can tell just from the looking, she  _ sparkles  _ with it. It would be enough to silence any naysayers, if they could see it-’

Ann can’t quite manage a reply, not right away- but she nods and smiles as much as she can, and Aunt Anne smiles back as if she quite understands what Ann means to say.

_ I’m glad. She’s all that to me too. I love her. I love her. I love her. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ann is troubled and Anne is cryptic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how long it's been since I last updated! Hopefully you haven't all gotten sick of waiting.  
> Thank you all so so much for the lovely, kind comments I've had- they absolutely make my day!
> 
> Side note: Thoughts on my theory that Ann Walker's diary would be a 19th century version of Sophie Rundle's instagram? I'm considering fic'ing it.  
> Find me on tumblr at @cynicalrainbows!

Aunt Ann gets up to leave when Anne returns with the brimming jug, still muttering about her sister’s perceived negligence.

This would usually be Ann’s cue to step in on Marian’s behalf- the familiar chiding to  _ be nice, Anne, be fair _ would be on the tip of her tongue, were it not for the fact that she has no space left in her for anything other than what she has just heard.

_ I don’t think any of them have made her feel as you have. _

She feels the happiness of it to her fingertips, she’s tingling with it.

The confirmation- by another person, no less- that Anne is truly happier for her presence is as precious as it is unexpected, and she replays the words in her head until they're worn soft with the repetition.

_ She sparkles with it. _

The bed depresses as Anne settles next to her again, pulling Ann out of her thoughts. Out of habit, she leans into Anne’s side and Anne wraps an arm around her shoulders.

‘Aunt is going to bed…. Shall I read a bit longer? Are you tired?’

She could never be tired of listening to Anne, but she doesn’t say it, aims for a more nonchalant response.

‘No, go on- unless you want to stop? …..It’s alright if you do.’

‘Well, it’s no rampant Laudanaum-fuelled escapade…..-’ Anne bestows upon her one of her devastating grins ‘-but it’s not bad.’

Still, she finds that she can't really feel interested in  _ Ivanhoe _ now: every declaration of knightly valour in the story sounds flat.

(At least compared to  _ She sparkles with it. _ )

(She supposes it isn’t really Scott’s fault though; after all, what  _ could  _ compare to it?)

She can’t concentrate, and, it seems, neither can Anne- she keeps losing her place, something Ann has never known her to do before.

She seems….distracted, and vague worry settles in Ann’s stomach.

_ It’s nothing…. It’s nothing….. It’s nothing. _

(If she repeats it, it will make it true.)

Anne apologises when she keeps repeating sentences, and Ann brushes them off- she’s on the verge of suggesting they stop when Anne puts the book down, marking her place with her finger…. And that’s another first- she’s seen her wife tear poor Marian to shreds for not using a bookmark- or, as Anne put it,  _ ‘desecrating a poor author’s lifesblood’ _ . 

Again, she thinks  _ Something is wrong _ \- it’s the foreboding of a storm about to hit despite the sky being inarguably blue- but at the same time, she can’t imagine what the problem could be.

‘Did….you and Aunt have a good talk?’

_ She sparkles with it.  _

‘Yes-’ She isn’t quite sure how much she wants to reveal- she wonders if Anne would like to think of her wife and her aunt discussing her past love life, and immediately concludes that she would most likely not care for it. ‘It was good of her to come to see me.’

‘And what did- did she want to talk about anything in particular?’ Ann, it seems, is not the only one attempting to appear casual.

‘Oh just-’ Ann wriggles onto her side, feigns nonchalance: she decides to hedge things a bit. ‘Getting things- sorted out. I think she wanted me to know there were no ill feelings and that everything is alright.’ 

_ That ought to do.  _ She would hate for Anne to feel that her privacy had been invaded, even by her two favourite people.

‘She was terribly kind.’

‘She is. She always has been.’ It's...almost grudging.

(Ann has wondered sometimes about Aunt Anne's kindness to take in her fifteen year old niece. She wonders what it looked like, kindness to this woman who is so effortlessly kind but who has the air of one who does not expect kindness in others. She wonders what life was like for Anne before she was the wealthy, well-travelled, much discussed entrepreneur, with the confident stride and the steely gaze, that she is now.)

‘It's such a relief to have everything sorted out and comfortable again. With everyone.’ She realises, as she says it, that it’s not quite true- she and Anne have yet to properly talk about things. Still, it would sound worse to correct herself now, so she doesn’t.

Anne raises an eyebrow.

‘First Marian and now my aunt. You've had a ...productive day.’

This is usually the highest of compliments from Ann but it sounds  _ off _ now, although Ann can’t be sure.  _ Maybe she's just imagining things. _

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Everything all- sorted out.’ There’s a tinge of bitterness that Ann cannot ignore now, as much as she’d like to, and her heart sinks. Somehow… somehow, despite trying, she has managed to say something to upset her wife and  _ if only she knew what it was- _

‘Anne- are you alright?’

_ Please, please don’t let this be the start of something else- not so close on the heels of everything that has happened already- _

‘Yes… yes, of course.’

‘Really? You sounded a little-’  _ Wrong? Different _ ? She can’t find the right word, she lets it hang.

‘Sorry-’

She seems to rouse herself- it’s as if shes tucking the bitterness away in herself somewhere.  _ For later, _ Ann thinks. 

(She doesn't like to think about when- not if- it will reappear.)

‘I’m just- tired, I think. Long day.’

_ Please, don’t let things go wrong again- _

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ 

There’s a moment in which she thinks that Anne is about to open up to her, just a  _ moment _ …..and then it passes, and Anne’s face closes up.

‘I'm always alright.’ 

There’s a pause, and then Anne picks up the book again and attempts a smile. ‘Shall I keep reading?’

_ No, talk to me- tell me what’s wrong, tell me how I’ve upset you, even when I tried not to- please, don’t let us go back to cold silences and not-talking, I can’t bear it, I can’t- _

‘Yes please.’

_ ‘But daughter or wife, she should be preferred according to her beauty and thy merits-’ _

As Anne reads, she tries to suppress a shiver and it’s hard- the fire is bright in the grate and the bedcovers are thick but they can't stop the fever chills. 

(Or did the room’s temperature just drop in the last few minutes? She can’t tell.)

Anne eventually notices and looks up. 

‘Cold?’

‘It's…. It’s just the fever, it’s nothing.’ 

She’s being honest, she’s been alternating between chills and fever flushes all day, she’s used to it (and with everything feeling so precarious, she’s got bigger things to think about)- but Anne lies the book onto the bedside table carefully (she uses the bookmark this time, Ann notes) and stretches out an arm with a smile of invitation.

The familiar gesture is a relief. 

#####  (She doesn’t think she’ll ever tire of Anne _offering_ affection- not pressing it on her, like Mr Ains\- like some men, with their heavy touch and clammy palms, not forcing it upon her, but offering it, and then smiling as if Anne is the lucky one, as if _Ann_ is bestowing favour upon _her_ and not the other way around.)

_ If Anne still wants to be close to her… perhaps nothing is wrong.  _

She can taste the lie of it, but it’s a comforting lie so she holds onto it stubbornly as she sinks into her wife: no matter how conflicted she might feel, she is still apparently greedy for Anne’s touch.

Anne seems to  _ radiate _ warmth and she presses herself as close to her wife's side as she can. It’s instantly soothing; it eases her tension in her muscles from the tension of trying to hold back the shivering, it eases the anxiety twisting in the pit of her stomach.

(Mostly.)

She actually gives little gasp of pleasure- she didn’t realise  _ quite  _ how  _ cold _ she was- and she feels Anne pressing her smile into the top of her head.

‘Better?’

‘Mmhmm.’ She's too focused on soaking up every bit of warmth that she can to reply- she burrows closer and holds tightly onto the soft cotton of Anne’s shirt bunched in her fists. 

(There will be creases tomorrow, and more work for Eugenie, but she can’t make herself let go. She wants to hold onto her wife while she can.)

Another kiss, this time to her temple, and Anne starts reading again.

_ ‘It was to this person that the Prince directed his imperious command to make a place for Isaac-’ _

Despite everything, Ann finds she’s shivering again before the page is even finished and when Anne stops reading, she wonders if she’s going to be unpeeled to allow Anne to get up to fetch her an extra blanket or add more coal to the fire. 

She’s all prepared to cling and whimper protests (she’s ill, she reminds herself, she’s allowed to be a little needy)- but instead of doing anything of the sort, Anne puts the book aside, gathers her into her arms and pulls Ann up on top of her, until she is lying full length against her wife.

‘Better?’

She nods into Anne’s collar and feels her put her arms around her, holding her tightly against her chest for a moment. Ann sinks into the warmth of it, presses her face into Anne’s neck and breathes her in.

_ Oh goodness she's missed this. _ Anne’s mood, whatever it is, is nowhere in evidence now- the bedroom is all softness and quiet.

‘I love you.’

She’ll puzzle out what all this means later. For now, she wants to enjoy the fact that no matter what is bothering her wife, her arms feel as much of a refuge as ever. 

‘I love you too.’

With that, she pushes all thoughts- all thoughts of Anne's mood, all thoughts of anything- out of her head. She will get to the bottom of it tomorrow- she’ll work it out tomorrow, she  _ will. _ But for now-

She lets the sound of her wife’s breathing lull her to sleep.

*

The next morning, Anne is up early as usual: she’s quiet enough that Ann wakes up to an empty bed and her wife nearly fully dressed.

‘Anne?’

Her wife is at her side in a moment. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Mmm. Achy. But it's not too bad-’ She makes sure to qualify it quickly, she doesn't want Anne to worry unduly.

‘Worse than yesterday?’

‘It’s fine- Are you going out?’

‘We’ll see. I’m just dressing for now.’ Anne pauses in tying her cravat to kiss her good morning. ‘Do you think you could manage some breakfast?’

‘Maybe later.’ She’s more concerned with the matter at hand. ‘You must have things you need to do today.’

(Anne is not like her- she and Catherine will talk about their plans for the day but they mean vague fancies that may or may not happen if something better turns up. Whereas Anne’s plans take the form of things that need to be done, deadlines to be met, decisions to be made. It actually  _ matters _ whether Anne’s plans come to fruition or not.)

‘Nothing more important than being here.’ Anne takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles - it’s sweet and it’s also probably a lie.

‘That’s nice of you.’ She’s grateful she  _ is _ , but she’s too sensitive to being a burden to be able to ignore her wife dropping everything for her _. _ ‘But you should go if you need to-’ She looks at her wife seriously. ‘I'm alright, really- do what you need to do. Just come back afterwards.’

Still, Anne looks conflicted. ‘I don't like the thought of abandoning you.’

‘It's not abandoning. Honestly.’

‘Well- if I were to go…. Should I send Eugenie to sit with you?’

She shakes her head. (She has no more desire for Eugenie at her sickbed than Eugenie probably has to be there.) ‘I'm alright- if I need company later, I'm sure Marian won't mind popping in again.’

And out of nowhere, as before, Anne’s smile stiffens. ‘Very well.’

‘I think I’m going to go back to sleep if I can- I’d like to be able to just doze for a while.’

It's not entirely a lie- she is tired, she didn't sleep well but she also wants some space to think: once Anne has acquiesced, kissed her goodbye and the door has closed behind her, she flops back onto her pillows, her mind racing.

What could be causing Anne’s odd mood?

What exactly triggered it- she has spoken to Marian and to Aunt Anne, yes- what had been said?

What had Anne said last night, as if repeating it?

_ Sorted out…. Everything sorted out. _

She seemed unhappy that they'd spoken but- no, she realised, not jealous they  _ spoke  _ but jealous they’d  _ resolved _ things.

Without her help.

She wonders if it’s that Anne is irked that she has upset the balance between them- after all, it’s the pattern they have. Ann flounders and Anne rescues, Ann frets and Anne soothes. 

Ann has problems, and Anne has solutions.

It’s not exactly what drew them together- she knows there’s more to it than that, with some serendipity and well timed stubbornness on both their parts thrown in- but it's part of it, it would be foolish to deny it or to pretend it away.

It's not in itself a bad thing either- she likes that Anne cares enough to want to help her and she knows that Anne likes being able to help- to smooth things over for her, to solve things. She's a fixer. Is she taking Anns independence in this small thing as rejection?

She hopes not- but it feels likely.

It’s….confusing though. Anne’s help has never been like the smothering, suffocating help of her cousins, seemingly always geared towards increasing Ann’s dependence… rather than encouraging her to stay still and quiet and  _ scared _ , Anne pushes her to  _ do _ things.

Pushes her to have Dr Day called rather than Dr Kenney, no matter what her family had to say; pushed her to accompany her to York to see Dr Belcombe, no matter that they hadn’t consulted anyones advice; pushed her to send the letter refusing the loan to her cousin and no matter that it would doubtless lead to polite mutterings over the rims of teacups about family ties and disloyalty.

Anne helps her half way over a problem and then supports her while she makes the final jump herself. Anne dictated the letters but insisted that Ann write and address and send them herself. Anne suggested visiting Dr Belcombe but insisted that Ann write to him, speak with him, herself. Anne had been at her side when they broke the news of their…. _ new arrangement  _ to the Priestley’s but she’d insisted that Ann break the news herself.

She has always assumed that Anne is gradually building her up to be able to do without this support- not in a grudging, impatient way, but in a way that expressed a deep and abiding confidence:  _ One day, one day, one day you will do these things for yourself, and if I'm at your side, it'll be purely for the pleasure of the company. _

There’s no sense of hurry at all- no timeframe to be aware of, no deadline to meet. She had read so much into Anne’s proud glances at her every time a new fear was faced down:  _ I’m here as long as you need me, but one day you won't- let weeks or months or years pass as they will…. One day you will be ready and I will be proud. _

(Has she read her wife wrongly all this time?)

Her growing confidence that Anne is not planning on becoming impatient with her- that she will be willing to help for years if needed- has been- ironically- so comforting that things actually have begun to lose some of their terror for her. 

(She still gets the occasional begging letter but she replies herself now. And she never sees Dr Kenney, other than accidently when making social calls.)

Once upon a time, she remembers, she was made brave by anger: she remembers the crackle of rising flames, sparked by her sisters scared look when the Captain rode up to the house unexpectedly on her last morning in Inverness and how she had suddenly felt herself to be at least ten foot tall and armoured with sudden fury, white hot and impenetrable.

She remembers the internal monologue-  _ How dare he make Elizabether so afraid, how dare he make me so afraid, how dare he destroy my letter, how dare he steal Anne from me? _ \- and the wide eyed shock of her relatives as she’d stood her ground.

Then, she had been made brave by anger- recently, she has found herself made brave by love- she can try things (slowly, tentatively, but still) because the result no longer matters so much. She has Anne after all and Anne is the strongest, most secure barrier against whatever the world can throw at her. She can be brave enough to talk to Marian, she can be brave and talk to Aunt Anne, she can sort things out on her own.

Does Anne feel displaced by this?

She’s reminded of the little flutters of irritation shown by certain relatives when she had tried to assert herself before- when she’d tried to suggest that she not visit the Ainsworth’s quite so often, that she not send yet another cheque to yet another unknown anonymous Walker. She had hated them for it at the time- even before she knew exactly why- but she finds that she can't hate Anne for it, can't even think of hating Anne for it now.

Anne, after all, has done so much for her, and perhaps her increased independence is ingratitude in the guise of self sufficiency?

(She has been called ungrateful before now, after all, and perhaps they were right?)

Does Anne feel displaced- and will she react by withdrawing again, properly withdrawing?

The thought makes her feel sick and shaky- it was how she had felt leaning out of the nursery window as a child for a dare: empty air around her and so very far to fall.

She needs Anne, and she needs anne to know this.

She wishes and wills for time to reverse- the same wish she had often made at Crow Nest, a different clock to beseech to but the prayer still essentially the same-  _ go back, go back, go back _ \- and it works, it turns out, as well in Shibden as it did in Lightcliffe.

It strikes her that time may be unmerciful, but perhaps she herself can do something- perhaps she can still undo some of the  progress damage.

Resolved, she picks up one of Anne’s pens and begins to write a note. 

Perhaps Joseph will be able to deliver it immediately.

(There's no time to waste.)


End file.
